an airy hand, scattering crumbs from a plum tart as she did so. I imagined not much troubled Cassandra, for she wore the imperturbable expression of an artist to whom material needs are never a concern. I had seen it before upon Plum, but to my surprise, he made no attempt to speak to his kindred spirit. His attentions were fully occupied by the lovely Miss Thorne. The more I watched them, the more interested I became, for she seemed entirely unmoved by his conversation, an unusual thing for Plum. He was, by virtue both of excellent birth and considerable personal attractions, quite accustomed to reciprocal attentions from any lady toward whom he cast his eye—with the obvious and painful exception of our sister-in-law, Violante. Being met with demure detachment would only whet his appetites, I suspected, and it certainly fired the interest of another, for more than once I detected the surreptitious stare of Miss Cavendish directed toward the pair. Before I could reflect further upon the matter, I saw Jane rise, give a little cry and put her hands to her belly, then fall backward into her chair again.
In an instant, Plum was supporting her with the aid of Harry Cavendish, while the Reverend hovered, looking worried. Miss Thorne hastened to shepherd the children aside and Portia, her brow white with fear, took Jane’s hands.
“I am sorry,” Jane said, giving a shaky smile. “I felt suddenly unwell. I am better now,” she said, but her face held no colour and her hands trembled in Portia’s. She gave a quick gasp and took hold of her belly again.
Portia looked around wildly, speaking to no one in particular. “She has another month yet. It is too soon.”
Miss Cavendish stepped forward. “Gentlemen, if you will convey Mrs. Cavendish to her room, we will attend her.”
It was a sign of Jane’s discomfort that she did not demur, but allowed herself to be hoisted gently between Plum and Harry, the Reverend following closely behind should they have need of him.
Cassandra had been watching with a sort of curious detachment, and as we left the garden, I heard Miss Thorne’s voice for the first time, low and beautifully-modulated. “I think it best if I take the children home now,” she said firmly, and Cassandra Pennyfeather seemed to recall herself then. “Oh, I suppose so. I may as well come too,” she replied, trailing after her children and lifting a languid hand to me in farewell.
But Cassandra’s peculiarities faded from my mind as soon as I reached Jane’s room. Portia was busy settling Jane comfortably into bed; the others had gathered just outside the door and an argument of sorts seemed to be brewing.
“She must have medical attention,” Plum was saying, infusing his words with all the authority of a thousand years of nobility. He was accustomed to snapping his fingers and having his will obeyed without question, but the Cavendishes exchanged glances with Reverend Pennyfeather, a silent conspiracy of sorts, and it occurred to me that if Jane’s life were to hang in the balance, the Cavendishes could well hasten the end simply by refusing medical treatment for her.
“My brother is right,” I said in ringing tones. I too was accustomed to imposing my will. “Why do you hesitate to send for the doctor? I am told there is one in the vicinity. Do you wish Jane ill that you would even hesitate upon the matter?”
To her credit, Miss Cavendish looked properly horrified. “Of course not! Jane is of the family now. She is one of us, and her child—” She broke off, her eyes fixed upon Harry’s. “Very well. We will send for the doctor.”
“No!” Harry exclaimed, and even the good Reverend shook his head. “Camellia, you dare not.”
Something of Harry’s insistence, or perhaps it was the Reverend’s familiarity, stopped her. Miss Cavendish’s hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, working quickly as she stood between the two factions, my brother and I to one side of her, Harry and the Reverend to the other.
“Why?” I demanded of the Reverend. He darted his eyes to Miss Cavendish and she nodded slowly, as if bestowing permission.
“He is indisposed. He was supposed to come with us today, but when we called for him, we found him unwell. He cannot attend Mrs. Cavendish.”
“He may at least be consulted,” retorted Plum.
“No, he cannot,” Miss Cavendish said, spitting out the words as if they sat bitterly upon her tongue. “He is an inebriate. If he sees her whilst he is under the influence of hard spirits, he might well kill her.”
This time there was no significant exchange of glances, but rather a deliberate failure to look at one another. Harry studied his boot tips while Miss Cavendish stared at her fists and the Reverend shoved his hands roughly through his hair, unsettling his spectacles a little.
“Who else?” I demanded. “Someone must attend to women in their time if the doctor is unreliable. One of the native women if there is no one else.”
If I had expected Miss Cavendish to be outraged by the suggestion that a native woman attend the mistress of the Peacocks, she did not show it. Instead, she nodded slowly.
“It might do. Mary-Benevolence was a midwife for years. She delivered Harry and Freddie both. She only left off when the doctor came to the valley, but I daresay she has not lost the knowledge.”
“You cannot let the cook attend Jane,” remonstrated Harry severely.
To my astonishment, Miss Cavendish turned on him fiercely. “What choice do we have? If the child dies and you did nothing to prevent it, what will people say?”
The colour drained sharply from his face and when he spoke, his voice was a dry whisper. “Of course. I didn’t think. I will fetch her.”
He turned and ran toward the stairs, returning a moment later with a tiny woman who stood no taller than my elbow. She was dressed in typical Hindu fashion, her arms bared, but she wore a rosary at her belt and when she approached us, she crossed herself. Her hair was white as the snows of Kanchenjunga, and I put her at something over sixty years of age. Her arms, though, were sinewy and brown, and her hands supple and strong. Her step was firm and her eyes bright and clear.
“You have need of me, lady?” she asked her mistress, and to my astonishment, her English was spoken with the slightest trace of an Irish brogue.
Miss Cavendish nodded toward the closed door. “Mrs. Cavendish. It is the baby.”
Mary-Benevolence shook her head. “Too soon. You wish that I should look at her?”
“Yes.” Miss Cavendish looked at us all anxiously, then took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, collecting her courage. “Do whatever you must to save Mrs. Cavendish and her child, should they be in danger.”
Mary-Benevolence gave her an inscrutable look. “And if I can save only one?”
“Save them both,” snapped Harry. He turned on his heel and left, but Miss Cavendish nodded toward Mary-Benevolence to second the commission. The little woman disappeared into the room and we were left alone then, the four of us.
“If I may offer a prayer for the health of Mrs. Cavendish and the child,” the Reverend murmured.
Plum and I had little religion, but it suddenly seemed right and good that we should pray for Jane, and I felt a rush of gratitude toward the man as we bowed our heads. When it was done, he took his leave of us, and Miss Cavendish resumed her usual brusque manner.
“I must go to the kitchen. Without Mary-Benevolence to oversee them, the staff will have done precisely nothing toward supper. And there ought to be beef tea for Jane and some hot milk.”
“A moment,” I said, catching her attention. “I am curious about your cook.”
Miss Cavendish gave a little sigh. “My father was devoted to his Irish mother. In her honour, he opened the Buddhist temple on the ridge to an order of nuns from Donegal. The sisters were unsuited to the life here and eventually abandoned the place, but for a while they ran the only school in the valley. Mary-Benevolence was taught to read and write and to speak English there. She also converted to Catholicism, but it was from her mother that she learned the art of